A Beacon That's Calling You Home
by lizook
Summary: Her mother's relentless this year though. They miss her and want to see her new place, no more excuses.


**Spoilers/Timeline**: None/Set in the future

**A/N**: Get used to this, I always end up writing my fics out of season (which means Halloween will probably roll around in March...) Thanks to **K. Elisabeth** for the slight prompt.

**Disclaimer**: Suits doesn't belong to me. Title found in Sugarland's _City of Silver Dreams_.

* * *

She's freaking out.

Not an "I locked myself out of the car and had to call a locksmith" freaking out, but a "my parents are coming and I only have three things crossed off my checklist" freaking out.

It's just what she does when she gets stressed.

She makes lists and takes an unholy amount of satisfaction from crossing everything the hell off of them.

(It really is rare that she hits this point. She's the best at her job, after all.

And, hell, over half the firm fears her; there's no need to forfeit her sheer awesomeness with lists of cases and worries about who broke the fax machine.

Though it was Mike and she left him a new page from the operation manual each day for weeks afterward.)

It doesn't matter that it's two days _after _the holiday—that her new game day jersey is flung over the back of the couch, her new ring hasn't left her hand since five a.m. Christmas morning, and his shiny new record player is under the tree obscured slightly by the messenger bag she jokingly gave him—because this is celebrating with her family. She's never hosted them before, always having made it home at some point of the holiday break (even that year that they worked Christmas _and _New Year's until the wee hours of the morning).

Her mother's relentless this year though. They miss her and want to see her new place, no more excuses.

And she loves her parents, really, but she is going to lose her shit.

She slides the last tray of cookies into the oven and takes a deep breath.

Nope, she's not leaving anything to chance. The usual decorations from her apartment—the soft, twinkling lights above doorways, candles nestled on the breakfast bar, and stockings hung near the tree—are spread through their condo. It still doesn't feel like enough though, so here she is.

Baking.

This is after she's bought the giant wreath that keeps falling off the door whenever someone opens it, has sprayed fake snow on every mirror in the place.

(He'd groaned and teased her, claiming it's something Clark Griswold would use to decorate.

She'd found their initials drawn in the bottom corner of their bathroom mirror two days later.)

She just wants everything to go smoothly, for her parents to accept him as much now as they did when he was just her boss.

Sighing, she snags her jersey and stuffs it in the top of her stocking before grabbing her parents' gifts from the spare room. She's juggling three of them when he enters the room tugging a sweater on, hair still slightly damp from the shower.

"When did all the elves get here?" He lifts a brow at her. "Did they leave any milk and cookies for me?"

"Nope, just a note explaining that all those sweets are going to catch up to you one of these days."

Her eyes show the same challenge—fire—as usual, but he can tell in the set of her jaw and the lift of her shoulders that she's nervous.

Taking the remaining package from her, he sets it on the closest chair before moving to her. They stand in comfortable silence for a long moment until he spots the list.

And then the other two.

He can't help it, he laughs.

"What?" She crosses her arms, eyes blazing, and, god damn it, he wishes he could just drag her back to bed right now.

"I just hadn't realized we'd reached defcon one in the course of entertaining your parents at Christmas."

"Harvey."

She practically growls it. Feels the anger mix with some strange giddiness that she only associates with him.

"Relax, your parents love coming to the city and letting you play tour guide." He grins that charming ass smile and she wants to kick him. "More importantly, they adore me." She rolls her eyes and cracks half a smile, unsurprised that he knows what's _really _got her on edge. "That's better. I promise, they will love soaking up all that schmaltzy Christmas shit."

Nodding, she turns toward the kitchen, sighing as her finger runs down the list once more. "I'm sure they will. I just want everything to—"

The sentence dies as his arms wrap around her from behind, his mouth slowly trailing down her neck. She tilts her head, giving him more access, and gasps, pressing back against him as he groans into her skin.

Closing her eyes, she loses herself to the sensation, to him, hard and strong behind her, his breath warm in her ear, until—

"Shit!" Her eyes fly open and she pushes herself past him and into the kitchen. "Shit, shit, shit! I forgot to set the timer!"

Trays clatter to the counter as she rescues them one by one from the oven, but it's too late.

Every single cookie is burned.

Throwing an oven mitt in frustration, she rests against the counter, laughing as it just misses him. He leans over, picks up a (now) misshapen cookie, and bites the head off.

Coughing a little, he stops next to her, their hips bumping as he mirrors her stance against the counter. "Delicious."

"Liar." She breaks a piece from the remainder in his hand and chews. "It tastes like sawdust."

He shrugs, unashamed, and pops the rest in his mouth. "I can call Ray and have him pick something up at one of the local pastry shops, but..." His fingers brush over her jaw and his lips slide over hers, warm and inviting. She moans below him, her tongue stroking over his as she relaxes against him. Pulling back, he grins down at her, forehead pressed to hers. "I stand by my statement."


End file.
